


Get Away From All This Plastic Love

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: But Between Natasha And Clint- Bucky And Clint Are Definitely Not Platonic, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton-centric, Deaf Clint Barton, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, I'm Bad At Tagging, Light Bondage, M/M, Mentioned Bruce Banner/Natasha Romanov - Freeform, Mild Painplay, Platonic BDSM, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 13:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16619615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: He hears Clint suck in a breath but it’s almost inaudible over the rapid beat of his heart. He’d been sure Natasha and Clint’s relationship wasn’t abusive; they loved each other, probably as much as Steve loved Bucky. (He’s not so sure Steve loves him as much now as he loved the old Bucky Barnes, to be honest, but that’s a problem for another time.) Natasha wouldn’t ever harm Clint unless there were circumstances where it was okay, if there was some sort of reason for-“I like it,” Clint mutters, into the fabric of the couch so it’s almost inaudible.





	Get Away From All This Plastic Love

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I feel like this is probably quite soft for a D/S fic, but it is what it is. Hope y’all enjoy nonetheless. I’m not sure what other tropes to tackle next, to be honest.

The mission goes sideways.  
  
This isn’t surprising in of itself- missions often go wrong in their line of work, and Bucky’s not particularly phased by it anymore- but Clint’s reaction after it goes wrong is the thing that’s setting everyone off. Clint had been outside of the building, on the roof with a few goons, and one of his hearing aids had been crushed in the fight. On top of that, Bucky had watched as he’d flung himself off the skyscraper, only shooting a grappling arrow at the last second to swing onto a low-hanging balcony. It must’ve bruised his knees, at least, but he hadn’t complained and there’d only been the faintest grunt of pain over the comms. He’d assumed it had been a normal end to the rather chaotic mission, world saved and villains in custody; but when they’d gotten on the jet to go home to the Tower Clint started snapping at people, even _Steve _,__ and he was so visibly worked up he was almost vibrating on the spot.  
  
The nervous energy is palpable, and Clint won’t even pause long enough to get his cuts and scrapes seen to, pacing back and forth across the Quinjet. Steve sends a pleading look at Natasha but she’s busy talking quietly to Bruce, and Clint’s giving her a wide berth anyway. _Avoiding her_ , Bucky thinks distantly. He’d been doing that a bit recently, and Bucky wasn’t complaining because it meant he got more of Clint’s attention. Natasha and Bruce’s relationship wasn’t any of his business, but it seems to have something to do with the way Clint’s bursting at the seams with stress. Bucky sets his gun down with Steve’s shield and lets out a sigh before he returns to where the others are gathered.  
  
Even Steve, who’s pretty easygoing (he deals with _Tony Stark_ all this time, there’s no doubting how understanding he is) is looking irritated with the situation. Bucky watches uncomfortably as Wanda reaches out a hand to stop Clint’s pacing and he actually _snarls_ at her, baring his teeth, and she pulls back like she’s been burned. With the power she has, she shouldn’t be even slightly scared of Clint but she continues to look distressed until Vision pulls her out of Clint’s way. Clint goes back to pacing back and forth in the elevator right up until they get onto the common floor, where he whips around to start talking about the guy who’d escaped (Bucky’s forgotten the villain’s name already) again.  
  
Bucky’s not even entirely sure what Clint’s upset about on this particular tangent, it’s all faded into a painful humming buzz at the base of his skull and it’s _annoying_. He likes Clint normally, maybe even more than likes him, but this is ridiculous. The others have escaped to the couches and Bucky’s left standing while Clint nearly vibrates out of his skin. There’s a cut high up on his cheek, blood drying along the sharp line of his jaw, and Bucky just wants him to _stop_.  
  
“All I needed was five more seconds and I could’ve nailed him,” the blond’s insisting, and he’s waving one hand in the air, close enough that he nearly swats Bucky in the face. “Fucking Doom, I swear to-”  
  
Something in Bucky snaps into place.  
  
“ _Hey_ ,” Bucky barks, sharp, and on instinct his right hand goes in Clint’s messy hair - it’s getting shaggy, longer than he usually has it, long enough for him to get a decent grip - and _twists_.  
  
The reaction is instant. Clint’s eyes go wide, impossibly blue, and he sucks in a breath and drops down onto his knees in front of Bucky like a puppet that’s had its strings cut. The thump makes even Bucky wince, but he can’t look away from the expression on Clint’s face, the way he’d just _submitted_ to the rough handling without even a second thought. The bruises on his knees must be killing him, but he doesn’t react. Something in Bucky’s stomach heats up and he’s fairly sure it wasn’t the curry he had last night.  
  
Bucky stares at Clint.  
  
Clint stares back, silently. It feels like he’s waiting for Bucky to do something else, anticipation gleaming in his eyes, but Bucky’s not even sure _why_ he just did that. His fingers are still in Clint’s hair, soft against his skin. It feels like all the tension buzzing under Clint’s skin has paused, and he’s not quite shaking under Bucky’s hand but it looks like he could start any second. Bucky’s eyes get caught on the way Clint’s lips are parted, just barely, and there’s still blood on his mouth from the fight.  
  
“Um,” Steve says, awkward.  
  
Oh, fuck.  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck. What is he _doing_? Bucky feels his face go heat up instantly and he turns to see the rest of the Avengers standing there, watching them. Steve looks incredibly uncomfortable, Natasha’s got one eyebrow arched high, and Tony’s got his phone out. Wanda won’t even look at them, and Vision’s… well, Vision isn’t doing much of anything, actually. Bucky’s going to break Tony’s phone into a million pieces if he’s filming this. It hits him, then, that he’s just manhandled a renowned, dangerous assassin who’s also a fucking superhero like he’s an unruly dog in front of the entire team, and that’s. _Fuck_. Not good. Even if it did have the added bonus of stopping Clint from driving everyone insane.  
  
And Clint’s just _letting_ him do it, which is the worst part.  
  
Bucky lets go (with some difficulty) and whips around, walking as fast as he can to the elevator without running, trying desperately to ignore the way the image of Clint kneeling keeps flickering behind his eyelids and the way he’s half-hard in his pants.

 

**

 

“Fuck off,” he grumbles into his coffee, not looking up from it to see who’s just entered the room. He got up at midday specifically so no one would be around when he arrived, so he could drown his shame in the fancy coffee Stark keeps on the main floor. For the first time in months, Bucky wishes he had a normal, human metabolism so he could get blackout drunk and wake up in a gutter somewhere with no recollection of the previous day. Hydra can bite his ass. They could’ve at least left him that.  
  
Clint grunts at him, unimpressed by his bad mood, and reaches past him to grab the purple mug on the sink. Bucky’s startled enough that he doesn’t flee the room immediately, and the sleeve of Clint’s hoodie brushes up against his arm, soft and worn thin. There’s a barely-noticeable pause from Clint, and then he’s shuffling away to the coffee machine with single-minded determination. Bucky takes the chance to look at him while he’s focused on pressing buttons and watching the mug fill.  
  
He looks bad. Well, that’s probably not the right word because there’s something oddly _attractive_ about the way Clint always manages to look like he’s been on the wrong end of a someone’s fist. There’s visible dark smudges under his eyes and a fleck of dried blood he’s missed on his cheek. His hair’s still damp, a few blond strands sticking up wildly from his head. The vibrating tension isn’t as obvious as it was yesterday, but now Bucky’s looking for it he can still see it in the way Clint’s standing, somehow looking exhausted and agitated at the same time. Bucky swallows, hard, wonders if he’s supposed to apologize for his actions or just shut down and pretend it never happened. _Pretend you didn’t like it_ , a corner of his mind chimes in. He tells it to fuck off.  
  
Clint’s eyes flick over to him, assessing him, and he isn’t entirely sure what to do. There’s nothing angry or upset in his expression like Bucky would’ve expected, just this vague tiredness that somehow makes him feel worse. Clint looks like he’s ready to hibernate for fifty years, and at this point Bucky would join him happily.  
  
“The others are at a meeting,” Clint says noncommittally. “Something about damage control.”  
  
They always leave Bucky out of those, but it’s kind of weird that Clint isn’t there. Maybe they’d decided to give him the day off after he’d been traumatized by his supposed teammate. Although… Clint doesn’t _look_ particularly traumatized, or even bothered by Bucky’s presence in the slightest. Bucky watches him drain the mug of coffee in a worryingly short amount of time and then begin the process of refilling it. He’s kind of worried Clint might fall asleep standing there, with the way he’s listing to the side a little as he stares at the coffee machine.  
  
“They’ll be back soon,” Clint adds once he’s got the mug in his hands again. Bucky groans and lets his head fall to the counter. Great. He doesn’t want to see them all for a week. A month, even. However long it takes for one of them to do something weird that becomes the new topic of conversation. It shouldn’t take that long, Vision tried to eat an unpeeled, raw eggplant on Tuesday. Clint lets out a soft huff of laughter that’s nearly inaudible, and Bucky can hear the smile without even seeing it. God, Clint’s gorgeous, he shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near him.  
  
“I can barricade us in the gym, the AI has a soft spot for me and the security doors are pretty strong there,” Clint offers, and Bucky turns his head so he can peek up at Clint. The smile’s there, like he’d thought, a small, soft one that just barely curves up Clint’s lips.  
  
“Can’t Stark override it? It’s his computer.”  
  
“It’s his computer, but FRIDAY loves me, she won’t let Tony get us,” he answers with a shrug.  
  
“Fuck, I’m not turning that down. Let’s go,” Bucky agrees, before he loses his nerve. If he goes back to his room he knows Steve’s going to come looking for him, or even worse, _Natasha_ , and he doesn’t want to talk about this with them. Being alone with Clint sounds like a bad idea, but Clint doesn’t seem interested in pulling out his spine for his insolence or anything, so maybe it’ll be fine. He grabs his sweater off of the counter and follows as Clint begins drifting in the direction of the elevator, noticing with some amusement that he’s barefoot.

 

**

 

The gym’s absolutely huge, a Stark-made monstrosity that Bucky both loves for the freedom and hates for the constant, droning beep of machinery, but at least it’s empty. Clint taps the elevator doors idly and sets his empty coffee mug down on the floor. Oh well, if it gets kicked, it gets kicked. That’s Clint’s problem, not his. Bucky follows him as he wanders over to a black couch covered in arrows and knives. It takes a few seconds for him to unceremoniously shove the whole lot to the ground with a loud clatter and Bucky snorts as he clambers onto it, stretching out in a way that reminds him of a cat, weirdly bendy and graceful.  
  
“You’re just going to sleep here?”  
  
“Mmmhm,” Clint hums agreeably into the fabric of the couch, sounding pleased.  
  
He looks- soft, almost, lying there in an oversized hoodie with his eyes half-shut. Both Natasha and Clint have the unique skill of looking delicate and unbearably _inviting_ despite being explicitly dangerous, and while Bucky doesn’t have any interest in touching Natasha for fear of losing a hand, he almost doesn’t manage to squash the urge to press his fingers into the warm curve of Clint’s spine, the bare strip of skin where his hoodie’s ridden up. He has to shove his hands into the pockets of his jeans to stop the temptation and then turns to grimace at the floor. He spent seventy years without any significant physical contact, why is it so hard to avoid touching Clint in particular?  
  
He doesn’t particularly feel like exercising right now, so instead of escaping to the treadmills to avoid conversation he just sits down on the floor with his back resting against the couch. The silence is weird, for Bucky- Clint’s normally bursting with chatter even when he’s not worked up, so it’s not something he’s used to. He wonders if it has anything to do with yesterday. When Bucky sighs and tips his head back against the couch he feels Clint huff out a laugh against his hair. He’d been mulling over cutting it short again, but Natasha had caught him staring contemplatively at the scissors and had said _no_ in a tone of voice that didn’t allow for any argument. _No _?__ he’d repeated, and she’d crossed her arms and said _you’re not cutting it just to please Steve.  
  
_ She’d been right, so.  
  
“Your hair smells like rainbows and sunshine,” Clint mumbles to him, and Bucky snorts.  
  
“Funny, the label on the shampoo said it was fruit punch.”  
  
“Rainbows and sunshine,” Clint repeats firmly, and then drifts into silence.  
  
It’s a few minutes before he says anything else and Bucky assumes he’s fallen asleep, but then his voice breaks the quiet again.  
  
“Did Natasha tell you anything about me?”  
  
“Like what? She said not to let you have more than one pot of coffee a day when she left for Argentina that one time.”  
  
“No, like…” Clint makes a tiny frustrated sound and Bucky hears him hit his head against the couch. It’s not going to cause any damage, so Bucky lets him do it and waits for the next half of the sentence. “Yesterday, when you. Uh.”  
  
A surge of panic washes up Bucky’s throat. “Shit, I’m so fuckin’ sorry about that, I have no idea why I did that, it’s-”  
  
“Wait, ‘tasha didn’t tell you to do it?”  
  
“...no? Why would she want me to __hurt__ you?”  
  
He hears Clint suck in a breath but it’s almost inaudible over the rapid beat of his heart. He’d been _sure_ Natasha and Clint’s relationship wasn’t abusive; they loved each other, probably as much as Steve loved Bucky. (He’s not so sure Steve loves him as much now as he loved the old Bucky Barnes, to be honest, but that’s a problem for another time.) Natasha wouldn’t ever harm Clint unless there were circumstances where it was okay, if there was some sort of reason for-  
  
“I like it,” Clint mutters, into the fabric of the couch so it’s almost inaudible.  
  
Bucky’s brain blows a fuse. Or at least, it feels like it has, because he’s replaying the way Clint had gone nearly boneless under his hand, the look in his eyes Bucky hadn’t been able to read at the time but could now register as _want _,__ as anticipation and barely-hidden yearning. Clint _wants_ to be shoved onto his knees and hurt, and he wants it desperately enough that he’d let Bucky do it in the middle of the common floor with the other Avengers watching them. He turns around then, twisting so he can see Clint’s face, but it’s pressed into the couch cushions so hard that he can only really see his jaw and the garish purple of his hearing aids. He doesn’t say anything, still a little in shock from the ideas flooding in his brain, but Clint groans and puts his hands on top of his head. His hoodie’s baggy enough that the sleeves hide more of his face, and Bucky swallows hard and tries to be the responsible one.  
  
Talking about it is responsible, right? Bucky’s not sure he can just leave the conversation at Clint liking being grabbed by the hair, because that leaves so many questions. Does he do this kind of stuff often? Is it just hair pulling, that sharp edge of pain, or is it something else altogether? Did Natasha do it for him, before she started whatever it was she was doing with Bruce? Is that why Clint was giving her a wide berth yesterday? Does he want this kind of stuff from Bucky _specifically_ or is he just happy to submit to anyone who’ll handle him?  
  
Clint’s still trying to suffocate himself in the couch cushions, though, so he pushes aside his questions and instead says, quietly, “I kinda liked it too.”  
  
It has the effect Bucky was hoping for, because one blue eye appears from under Clint’s arms. He doesn’t say anything else, although he can feel the heat of an embarrassed flush on his face and hopes Clint at least appreciates the authenticity of his words. Clint eyes him off for another minute silently, and then pushes himself up into a sitting position on the couch.  
  
“It,” Clint starts, and then stops, frowning. He starts picking at a stray thread from his jeans. “Fuck, it’s hard to explain. You ever feel like there’s so much tension under your skin it’s going to drive you insane if you don’t let it out?”  
  
Bucky thinks of those nights when he’d first come to the Tower. Hiding in Steve’s room, prowling like a trapped animal, putting a knife to Natasha’s throat when she approached him too quickly. The way Clint himself had dropped out of a vent one day and brandished a flamethrower larger than his impressive biceps, explaining that there were new weapons that needed testing and he needed an assistant and __I_ mean come on, Barnes, what else are you doing? Moping? Being emo? Blow some shit up with me. It’ll help, promise.   
  
_“It’s like that, but it doesn’t go away. I run around like an idiot, I fall off buildings, I jerk off, I blow up supervillains, nothing works except _that _,”__  Clint continues, looking up at the ceiling instead of Bucky. “Sometimes I need someone to burn out the energy for me.”  
  
“It’s not a sex thing, then,” Bucky notes.  
  
Clint laughs, some of the stress on his face easing up marginally. “I mean, I like the sex too, but that’s a bonus, I don’t need it the way I need the… you know. Dominance.”  
  
“And you and Natasha-?”  
  
“No sex. Purely platonic,” Clint agrees, tapping his fingers against his knee idly. “She’d slap me around a bit, scratch my thighs with her nails, handcuff me to something if I got too out of control, but since Ultron, she can’t. Her thing with Bruce, it’s too fragile. God knows what Banner would say if he found out we were doing that, he’s insecure enough as it is. I can’t do that to her.”  
  
Bucky nods slowly. That’s fair. He hasn’t had much to do with the scientist behind the Hulk, but he can only imagine how tentative Bruce would be with a relationship, with the things he’s done. Bucky feels the same way, some days. Knowing what Hydra have done with the Winter Soldier still makes him nauseous. But Clint isn’t asking him for a serious relationship- he’s not asking for anything, really, not directly, but Bucky can still see the way he’s fiddling like he can’t help it, teeth indenting his lower lip. And if he needs this the way he seems to need it, Bucky’s fine with it.  
  
“I can help,” he says. “But. I’m going on Google first to learn how to do it _safely_.”  
  
“You kids and your internet,” Clint says with amusement. “You’re seriously okay with this, though, Barnes? I’m not, like, forcing you to do it, am I?”  
  
“I’m definitely okay with it,” Bucky answers firmly, thinking of the way heat had pooled low in his stomach when Clint had dropped to his knees. And if Clint needed it that bad, well, he could definitely oblige regardless of whether he got off on it or not. When he raises his eyes up to Clint’s face, he can almost taste the reckless anticipation coming off of the blond in waves. Sitting the way they are, with Bucky on the floor and Clint on the couch, it’d be easy for him to roll onto his knees and lean up to kiss him- but, no, that’s not what they discussed. He’s getting overambitious already, especially with the way Clint’s slow, pleased grin makes sparks dance up his spine.  
  
“Mister Barton,” a computerized voice interrupts. Clint glances up at the ceiling. “The boss is demanding you let him into the gym.”  
  
Clint glances between Bucky and the elevator doors thoughtfully, and then shrugs, pushing himself off of the couch. “Take the stairs, I’ll keep them occupied long enough for you to escape.”  
  
“You sure?”  
  
“Yeah. Go find your reading material, Barnes. FRIDAY can let you know where I am when you want me.”  
  
Normally Bucky would be brave about this and insist on engaging Tony Stark himself instead of hiding behind Clint, but he’s itching under his skin and he needs to find more information so they can _do_ this, so he can do this for Clint. He offers a half-hearted wave instead and gets a curl of Clint’s lips that isn’t quite a smile but is instead something more satisfied and amused. It’s tempting to just stay and push Clint down onto the couch again, turn that smirk into something genuine and desperate, but he can’t afford to slip up in front of the team again.  
  
God, he wants to, though.

 

**

 

Natasha comes into his room while he’s on the laptop Steve lets him use. He’s sitting on his bed, so he notices the flash of red hair immediately and moves to shut the computer down, but she shakes her head silently and then slides onto the mattress next to him. Bucky glances back at the screen, which has a tutorial on safewords, and then back to Natasha as she rests her head on his shoulder. She seems tired, oddly enough, and it’s strange that she’s sought him out like this without a defined reason, but he’ll allow it. He goes back to reading the text on the screen, wondering if maybe she’ll tell him to stay away from Clint. It’s almost funny, how fiercely protective she is of him behind closed doors. She hides it well, but Bucky’s seen the look on her face when Clint gets hurt on the field, and it’s violently frightening.  
  
“He likes the traffic lights system. Green for go, yellow for slow down, red for stop,” she says after a while. “It’s hard for him to remember unique safewords when he’s down.”  
  
“You’re okay with this?”  
  
Her hair brushes against his skin as she nods. “He trusts you.”  
  
 _Oh_. Bucky’s heart feels like it might be too big for his chest. He’d known, somewhere along the line between the late nights drinking on the roof and the banter over the comms that Clint liked him, sure, but the confirmation from Natasha is something else entirely. It occurs to him that she’d apparently come all this way to give him her blessing, which is shocking in of itself. It means that Natasha trusts him too, trusts him to take care of Clint and not fuck this up, and that’s… a lot of responsibility. It’s one thing to allow the Winter Soldier to live in your home, but it’s another thing entirely to let Bucky Barnes have a relationship like this with your best friend.  
  
“This is a good thing. We don’t get many good things, people like us,” she continues, quietly. “Don’t fuck it up.”  
  
“I’ll do my best,” Bucky says past the lump in his throat. She pats his hand, the flesh one, her sharp nails brushing up against his skin, and then she gets up. She doesn’t say goodbye, doesn’t even give him a second glance, but Bucky feels like he’s been accepted nonetheless.  
  
He switches tabs and presses the ‘same-day shipping’ option that appears in the right-hand corner, and hopes like hell that the delivery is discreet. Or he’s going to have to murder Tony Stark in front of everyone, and that would just ruin everything, wouldn’t it?

 

**

 

Clint’s watching the television when Bucky arrives on his floor, something with a strangely-coloured cartoon dog and a man in the ugliest green striped shirt he’s ever seen in his life. He takes a minute to squint at it before he approaches. He notices immediately that Clint’s hearing aids are on the coffee table by his bare feet, but Clint can apparently feel the vibrations of him walking or something else entirely because he raises his hand in a wave without looking away from the screen. Bucky sets the black bag down by the armchair and sits next to Clint, realising that the subtitles for the television show are in Spanish. Weird. He hadn’t even known that Clint could speak anything other than English, but then again, he was a spy for SHIELD before he was an Avenger. It made sense that he’d know other languages.  
  
They sit there in comfortable silence as the show continues, but Bucky can see the way Clint’s fidgeting, and there’s barely-visible red marks on his arm where he’s been subconsciously scratching himself. The anticipation is killing Bucky too, a little bit, but he manages to just sit there until the credits roll out, and Clint’s eyes flick to him, focused and intent, before he reaches forward to grab his aids. He leans back to put them in, but Bucky stops him with a touch to his wrist, just above a raised scar.  
  
 _Let me?_ he signs, and Clint’s eyebrows raise marginally, but he nods and tilts his head obligingly to let Bucky hook them in. He’s not sure why, exactly, he’s intent on doing this, but he wants it to be _more_ than just the pain and the dominance. He wants to take care of Clint, wants to help in ways he’s not entirely sure he can articulate properly.  
  
“Hi,” Clint greets when the hearing aids are turned on, lips curling up in amusement. Bucky’s left hand is still brushing the skin underneath his ear, but Clint doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, with the way he’s tipping his head into the warm metal.  
  
“You okay to do this now?” Bucky asks, quietly.  
  
Clint laughs, but it sounds a little strained. “I’m fucking dying for it, Barnes. You have no idea.”  
  
“Alright,” Bucky agrees, but the heat flickering up his spine says otherwise. “You want to do it in the bedroom, or here?”  
  
“Surprise me,” Clint says amicably.  
  
Bucky slaps him.  
  
It’s not a hard blow, barely enough to sting, but it’s enough to knock Clint off balance and surprise him. This close, Bucky can see the way his pupils dilate immediately, can hear the soft hitch in his breath. His own breathing’s calm and sure, despite the way his heart’s rattling in his chest.  
  
“That’s not an answer,” he says. “Colour?”  
  
“Green,” Clint answers, something reverent in his voice. “You?”  
  
“Green,” Bucky agrees, although he’s fairly sure Clint isn’t supposed to be asking him if this is okay considering he’s the one in the position of power. Maybe they don’t have to be stereotypical about it. He stands up and makes his way back to the bag he’d left, leaving Clint where he was sitting. The bag rattles a bit when he picks it up and he sees Clint tilt his head curiously to the side, but there aren’t any questions like he’s expecting. It occurs to him that Clint’s allowing him to do whatever he likes, trusts him not to take it too far.  
  
“On the bed,” he orders, and Clint’s ensuing smile makes his chest warm. “Everything but your underwear off.”  
  
He stands and watches as Clint makes his way to the bedroom, hiding a snort as the black t-shirt goes flying and ends up hanging off of a light fixture. Clint’s jeans follow in much the same manner, although they land in an untidy heap in the doorway. He’s half-tempted to stop and fold the clothes up neatly, or make Clint do it, but that’s not the point of today. Instead he follows, watches the scars on Clint’s back catch the light filtering through the blinds. Bucky’s a little surprised at how _pretty_ he finds Clint- not in the same way he’d felt about girls in the thirties with their bright lipstick and tight curls, but in a specifically _Clint_ way. There’s something oddly mesmerizing about how he sits on the bed, all lean muscle and bruised skin and half-cocky, half-pleased smile. Bucky approaches, sets down the bag at the foot of the bed and steps between Clint’s spread knees.  
  
Clint’s wearing a pair of tight boxer-briefs with cartoon tacos on them. Somehow, it’s more hilariously endearing than it is a mood-killer. He snorts at them briefly, catches Clint’s smile widening a fraction, and then gives into the urge to run his left hand through Clint’s hair. Clint tips his head up into the touch, comfortable, until Bucky tightens his grip and Clint sucks in a startled breath.  
  
“How do you feel about restraints?”  
  
Clint blinks for a minute like he’s struggling to concentrate. Bucky takes the pause as an opportunity to rub his thumb up against the delicate sweep of one collarbone, digging into a bruise that’s there from yesterday’s mission. The heat flooding his gut is mostly related to the noise Clint makes, and in the position he’s in, he can see Clint’s half-hard in his underwear. _I like the sex too,_ he’d said this morning, and Bucky’s tempted, god, he’s so tempted to touch, but Clint manages to answer his question before the urge overtakes him.  
  
“I like restraints,” he says, sounding a little breathless because Bucky’s _still_ pressing down on his bruises every few seconds. “Please.”  
  
He’s not expecting the please, but he approves of it. “On your back. Hands above your head,” he instructs, surveying the headboard of Clint’s bed. It looks strong enough, so he picks out the black braided rope and watches the way Clint’s eyes light up with interest as he stretches out on the bed.  
  
“You gonna get naked?”  
  
“No,” Bucky answers, but he toes off his boots before he kneels on the bed, nearly touching Clint’s waist but not quite. Clint stretches his arms above his head and Bucky takes a moment to admire the play of muscle before he begins tying his hands to the bed. He leaves enough give that it won’t cut off circulation, but it’s still tight enough that when Clint tugs on it experimentally, he doesn’t get very far. Bucky doesn’t bother to ask for a colour- the way Clint’s squirming like he’s trying to get friction is answer enough this time.  
  
This time the slap lands on the inside of Clint’s thigh, harder than the one from before, and the way Clint gasps and twitches under his hand is exhilarating. He waits a moment and watches as Clint sinks back down into the mattress, biting his lower lip, and then drags his nails down the reddened skin. They’re nowhere near the sharp, neatly filed points Natasha has, but there’s enough of a scratch that Clint arches up off the bed with something close to a whimper. Bucky glances up at his face but he’s staring up at the ceiling, face flushed and lips parted like even this is making him unravel at the edges.  
  
“Can you count?”  
  
He delivers the question with another slap, not waiting for an answer. Normally he’d be inclined towards hitting somewhere less sensitive than the inside of his thighs; Clint’s ass, maybe, but he’s not quite confident enough in this to be putting his hands on Clint’s bare ass, so he’s not taking it there. As tight as his jeans are feeling right now, this isn’t about him. One bruised knee brushes his side as Clint spreads his legs a little. He’s trembling, just a little, but there’s nothing in his facial expression that screams distress, so Bucky doesn’t say anything about it.  
  
“One,” Clint breathes out.  
  
The next hit lands on a yellowing bruise situated just below the hem of his ridiculous underwear. “Two,” comes immediately after, reverent, although Clint sounds like he’s drifting already. Bucky feels a hot burst of pride that settles warmly in his chest. He’s doing that to Clint.  
  
The next eight slaps land with Clint counting distractedly, the skin of his thighs flushed. There’s going to be bruising later, for sure, but he’s fairly certain the blond _wants_ it to bruise. He stops at ten, rubs the cool metal of his left hand over the red marks, breath catching in his throat as Clint pushes into the contact unashamedly, gasping and tugging on the ropes he’s tied with. He’s __impressively__ hard, sweaty and wild-eyed, and Bucky’s fairly sure he hasn’t been this turned on himself since the forties. He runs his right hand down Clint’s chest, drags his nails over a nipple and revels in the noise it drags out of Clint, choked and desperate.  
  
“Can you come from just this?”  
  
“I’m- I- green, _please_ ,” Clint manages to get out, twisting like he’s not sure whether he wants to get away or move closer, and he isn’t particularly coherent but Bucky slides his hand further up Clint’s thigh anyway. The arm re-calibrates with a low whirr and he digs his thumb into a bruise, _hard _,__ and Clint makes a sound that’s more of a sob than anything else and his hips jerk up like he can’t help it. God, he wasn’t expecting it to be this hot, he really wasn’t. But there’s something intimately satisfying about the way Clint’s squirming, inarticulate and needy for whatever Bucky’s willing to provide for him.  
  
“Fuck, you’d do anything I wanted right now, wouldn’t you,” Bucky mutters, and Clint doesn’t answer with words but he moans, and that’s answer enough. “Gonna beg, Barton? You’re that desperate?”  
  
“Please,” Clint pleads, and there’s tears in his eyes, a smear of blood on his mouth where’s he’s been too rough with the cut healing on his lip.  
  
Bucky’s feeling a little distracted himself now, but he shifts back an inch and slides his left hand into Clint’s underwear. Clint arches up into the touch and shudders like the cool metal on his cock is too much, eyes squeezing shut. He jerks Clint off slowly, just enough that he’s panting with it, nearly teasing but not quite. The final hit lands on the inside of Clint’s left thigh, with more force in it than earlier, and Clint shakes and comes in his hand, trembling violently. Bucky strokes him through it, uses his other hand to thumb off the stray tears that have made their way onto Clint’s face.  
  
When he unties the rope Clint sags and goes boneless against the mattress, looking absolutely wrecked. Bucky’s a little smug about that, if he’s honest with himself. “You good? Clint?”  
  
“I think my knees just dissolved,” Clint slurs in his direction, waving one hand in the air. He’s trashed. Bucky snorts and moves to grab the water bottle he’d stored in the bag from earlier. Clint doesn’t seem inclined to sit up and drink, but Bucky takes the initiative and pulls him up to lean against the pillows. Immediately, Clint’s slumping sideways into his lap, hair tickling Bucky’s chin. He accepts the contact and wraps an arm around Clint’s waist, but still holds the water up to his mouth. The skittles he’d pocketed get a more enthusiastic reaction, although he still has to pick them out individually and feed them to Clint.  
  
“Y’want me to take care of that?”  
  
Bucky tries not to laugh as distracted fingers land on his thigh. “Nah. ‘s fine, don’t worry about it.”  
  
“Mmkay. Next time,” Clint says agreeably, patting his thigh some more and turning his face into the curve of Bucky’s neck. He’s warm, lazy and pliant, and something in Bucky’s heart goes soft. He can’t quite squash the urge to pet Clint’s hair, and it gets him an approving hum when he starts, so he leaves his hand there. He’s going to have to persuade Clint to get in the shower later, but this is nice. Simple. And apparently there’s going to be a _next time,_ according to the other.  
  
“Hey,” Clint says, minutes later. Or it might have been hours. Bucky may or may not have dozed off at one point. “You sure you haven’t done that before? You’re a natural.”  
  
“Blame Google,” Bucky answers dryly.  
  
This earns him an amused snort, and then Clint pushes off his chest to sit up properly, stretching. He’s beautiful, distressingly so, hair gold in the late afternoon sunlight and eyelashes dark against his skin. All the tension from earlier has melted away and he looks relaxed now. Happy, even, with that little pleased smile curling his lips. He tilts his head at Bucky in that way he does when he’s trying to read people, and Bucky raises an eyebrow without saying anything.  
  
“You liked it,” Clint says decisively, after a moment, scratching at his stomach.  
  
“I liked it,” Bucky agrees, and then nearly falls off the bed when Clint leans across to kiss him. There’s still a faint taste of dried blood on his lips, but he’s soft and enthusiastic and Bucky liked it, sure, but he likes _Clint_ more. His fingers brush up against bare skin, and Clint sucks in a startled breath and laughs when he finds a bruise and presses down.  
  
“How d’you feel about Chinese?”  
  
“The food? It’s fine. Why?”  
  
Clint sits back enough to grin at him. “I need food to recharge, but then? I am getting in your pants, one way or another, Barnes.”  
  
“Well, how can I say no to that?” Bucky says, dry. “You’re a real romantic, Barton.”  
  
“You won’t be sarcastic when I get my mouth on you,” Clint retorts, teasing and mock-offended. “I have positive Yelp reviews on my blowjob techniques.”  
  
“What the fuck is a Yelp?”  
  
Clint laughs and Bucky has to pull him in for another kiss, because this could work. This could definitely work, and with the way his heart’s fluttering in his chest, he wants it to work.

 


End file.
